


Helga, just not Hufflepuff

by justawordwright



Series: Tales of the Founders [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Badass!Helga, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Hogwarts Founders Era, Norse!Helga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 18:03:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10836501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justawordwright/pseuds/justawordwright
Summary: Kind. Gentle. Caring. Pretty. All ways in which Helga Hufflepuff is remembered.Unfortunately, they are completely wrong.





	Helga, just not Hufflepuff

Her name was not Helga Hufflepuff.

Yes, they would call her that, when the centuries passed and Britain was a kingdom united, English and Scot and Welsh and Irish were bound to one King, one Queen, one rule. The battles were over and they called her Hufflepuff and remembered that she was kind and gentle and fair and _pretty_.

That wasn’t her.

This was 976 and England was barely born, a kingdom still fighting to not flicker out. The Danes held the North and the East and would still crush baby England with any chance they had; Alfred had been a century gone but he had never vanquished the Scandinavians, only staved them off.

This was 976 and Wallia was still divided and Alba sided with whoever stood the strongest.

This was 976 and Britain had been at war for centuries. The Romans had come and waned, then Saxon, Angle and Jute had followed, and Gael and Scot and Irish too. And then the Vikingr. Two hundred years the Vikings had picked at the land, raiding and pillaging and destroying; their settlers had come and stolen land and tried to steal more. Raiders turned to conquerors. They'd nearly succeeded too.

This was 976 and Helga was not a Hufflepuff.

She was Helga Hrutsdottir, Helga of the Danes, Helga Spaki, Helga Vigasterki.

Helga the _Vǫlva_.

Helga of the _fjǫlkunnig_.

Years she had learned her craft. _Fjǫlkunnig_ she had — she was not just a _Spákona_ , or Speaker of Things to Come; not just a _Galdrkona_ , or Singer of Magic; not just a _Bréfgøra_ or Carver of the Runes; not a _Sporskapða_ or a Wound-maker; not just a _Seiðkona_ , a practitioner of the dark, unknowable arts — but she had the _fjǫlkunnig_ , and was a mistress of all.

Feared she was, for what she could do — how she could speak a man’s fate and sing it into being and carve his history and kill him and curse him to never reach Valhalla — but she was respected for it too. Few ever went past just one of _Spá_ or _Galdr_ or _Spor_ , and fewer even dared think of forbidden _Seiðr_ , but she knew them all, the five parts of magic, and bent them all to her will.

This was 976 and she had eighty years of battle-scars torn across her skin.

She had walked the battlefields and saw men fall before her, dead or afraid. No sword in her hand, for that was not her right, but still an iron wand of death, spitting magic and curses. Her first kill came at sixteen; by the time she turned twenty she had stopped counting.

Godric, he who would build Hogwarts with her had first met her in war, as an Ealdorman of the Saxons. They’d cursed each other and fought till both were soaked red and they’d both fallen, though this time Helga had been first. Next time, she hadn’t.

This was 976 and Helga was a relic.

The Danelaw had fallen, and Æthelstan had twisted it into England. Her homeland had been stolen and her people bent to a new religion. The Old Ways outlawed, the magic of the women made a treason. She’d fought and when that failed, fled. The hills hid her and the few that followed. She’d kept her magic, kept her Gods but she’d lost her life.

Rebellions she'd kindled and led — her family was born with swords in the boys’ hands and wands in the girls’. The Old Ways were kept and taught to them, and every time England faltered, they had come, Helga and her children with magic and killing in their blood, spilling from their hides and onto the battlefields. Some had succeeded, at least briefly — Danish Kings had been crowned in Jorvik again, but Christianity had seized them and they were little more than Danish in name. Her own people wanted her dead, her entire life a taboo.

This was 976 and she was fleeing.

Godric, Salazar and Rowena, they had made their peace with each other, had realised what was happening. Times had changed, magic meant death now, at least around those without it, and they had to ally, couldn’t waste their time fighting between themselves when the Christians would kill them all. They were outcast and hunted — Godric with his lands torn away; Rowena’s abbey come under new rule; and Salazar had been running for decades — and to Moreb they went, stumbling through mountain and glen till their pursuers gave up.

A Hall they made, and students called for and the Founders took their pick.

Two warriors and two scholars and they chose those they’d teach.

‘ _Those with courage and honour in their blood’_ claimed Godric,

‘ _Ambition_ ,’ said Salazar, ‘ _and pragmatism for me_ ,’

‘ _The open-minded learners and hunters of truth’_ Rowena took to her side,

‘ _Then the determined, the fighters, the never-deterred are mine’_ Helga declared.

For this was Helga, not Hufflepuff, and gentleness had no place in war and fairness neither, and she was born of blood and magic, and warriors trembling at her feet. She had fought, and had the scars to show it, had won and still lost it all.

She was Helga, and that was forgot.


End file.
